


Question Time

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Angst and Humor, First Kiss, Friendship/Love, M/M, Mild Language, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:44:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natural progression.  </p>
<p>... Or how Will, from an unwanted presence in Ethan's life, slowly became much more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Question Time

**Author's Note:**

> ~ Narrated by Ethan & self-beta'd.  
> ~ Written way back in April & posted now 'cos I'm feeling, well, completely... blank... in respect to what I could possibly write and thought I may as well put my time to some kind of use by digging around in the 'unposted' folder...
> 
> ~ Whether the summary adequately conveys it or not, the fic is simply meant as a gentle, somewhat rambly explanation as to how, in his own way and in his own time, Ethan adapted to having Will in his life.
> 
> ~ Please, enjoy!

============  
Question Time  
by TalithaX  
============

 

“Why would that work?”

“Why'd... what... work?” I query as, only just resisting the urge to sigh with annoyance, I shoot a glance over my shoulder at the dripping wet and bedraggled looking analyst trudging along behind me. It not exactly having been the greatest of days, I'd actually forgotten he was even shadowing me until he'd opened his mouth and, my head already brimming over with my own addled thoughts as it is, I really hope he hasn't suddenly decided now would be a good time to have a chat because, seriously, I'm really, really not in the mood.

“The flare on the body,” Brandt replies, frowning as he hugs his sodden suit jacket around his chest. “Why would that work?”

“It did work,” I mutter dismissively as, now that I'm once again aware of him, I idly wonder just what it is I may have gotten myself into here by keeping him with me. I mean, dear God, who cares? It worked. It's history. And, let's face it, I have far more pressing things on my mind – the Secretary is dead, the President has initiated Ghost Protocol and the whole of IMF is shut down, Cobalt has nuclear launch codes, and, hey, while I'm at let's not forget the positively tiny fact of life that the Kremlin has been blown up – than why a bunch of trigger happy morons fell for my admittedly... clutching at straws... plan.

“Yeah. I know...”

The way he says 'I know' makes me think the simple acceptance of what and, again, let's face it, is – history – fact, is actually causing him some form of pain, like, I don't know, it's putting too much strain on the overly dominant logic-chip in his brain or something. Noticing that he's about to turn in the wrong direction, I toy for a split second with the idea of simply – making my escape – letting him go on his un-merry way before my conscience kicks in and I call him back. “Hey...”

“But why?” Brandt continues, rejoining me and, because it's becoming clear he has a one-track mind, picking up immediately where he left off. “I mean, how'd you know that would draw their fire?”

Magnanimously choosing to turn a deaf ear to the decidedly plaintive... whine... in his voice, I bite back yet another sigh and – state the fucking obvious – reply, “I didn't. I played a hunch.”

“Okay. Alright. So what was your scenario?” Brandt – to hell with being magnanimous – whines. “Right. There's a guy being shot at in the water and all of a sudden he decides to light up a flare and swim around? I mean, what did you assume they'd be thinking?”

“Thinking?” I echo, the disbelief I'm feeling at being a reluctant part of this surreal conversation coming through loud and clear in my voice. Thinking? Who gives a fuck what they were thinking. Again, it's history, and I don't for the life of me know why he's dwelling on it.

“Yeah.”

Fine. Whatever. He's clearly – autistic – not going to move on without getting some form of response so, again, fine, he asked for it and he can have it. “I didn't assume they'd be thinking,” I grind out. “I assumed they'd be shooting at anything that moved and I just gave them a target.” Pausing, I come to a stop and look – IMF's version of Rainman – Brandt in the eye. “These guys aren't Rhodes scholars, you know...” 

Following my lead and coming to a stop, Brandt gives me a worried, if not downright nervous look and continues to hug his jacket around his torso. He looks, not to put a too fine a point on it or anything, as though he's about to have a melt down and, if he loses it, I honestly don't know what it is I'm going to do with him. Yes, he's IMF, which means I can't in all good conscience – regardless of how much I'm beginning to think I might like to – just abandon him to fend for himself in the wilds of Moscow, but he's an analyst, a pencil-pushing desk-jokey, not a field agent and right now it's fairly clear he's feeling as though he's well and truly fallen down the rabbit hole. Not being a completely self-absorbed asshole, I get that, I really do, but I simply don't have the time – or the inclination, for that matter – to sit him down and pat his hand while murmuring suitably bland words of reassurance. This means he has to either suck it up and get with the... vague at best... program or, simply put, he won't be the only one skating too close to melt down territory. As bad as he might think his day has been, mine – which, don't forget, actually started off in a prison cell – has easily been worse and, if push comes to shove I won't hesitate in sharing this fact of life with him.

“This is really happening, isn't it?” Brandt murmurs at last, his expression shifting subtly to one of resignation.

I could try to dredge up some soothing – 'it's okay, everything will work out, you'll see' – words to offer him. Hell, what's more, I probably should, given that I don't know just what it'll take to push him over the edge once and for all. But, you know something? I really just don't have it in me.

So... He can have it straight and all I can do is hope his analytical mindset can take it.

“Yeah.”

As fucking always in my messed up excuse for a life. It's really happening. 

~*~ 

“Why'd it work? I've gone over all the reports and I still can't see how it worked. I mean, it did work. I know that, but... How?”

Fuck me. Talk about deja vu. Despite it being both history and a success, albeit, okay, one with a fairly high physical cost given that both Jane and I are currently taking up space in hospital beds, Brandt is still clearly struggling with the concept of... simple acceptance. And, just like in the train yard in Moscow, I don't have a neatly logical response to give him and nor, for that matter, do I care. Cobalt's dead and we successfully averted a nuclear strike. At the end of the day, that's pretty much all there is to it. Maybe it was through skill, dedication and desperation. Maybe it was simply luck. Whatever it was though, it worked in our favour and, again, I really couldn't give a flying fuck about the specifics. 

As for why Brandt is lurking in my hospital room, while I'm sure it all makes perfectly logical sense to him, I just don't care about that either. Still dressed in the now crumpled and stained suit he wore to the party and with both a split lip and bruises still forming on his already strangely familiar face, he's sitting in the chair next to my bed and looking – worried – down at me. Whether the worried expression is courtesy of concern over how I'm feeling or because, yet again, he can't get his head around what he's recently experienced, is, however, anyone's guess. Going on the fact that the first words out of his mouth when he saw that I was awake was some stupid question I can't answer as opposed to asking how I'm feeling, I suspect it's the latter and he's once again all confused but, at the risk of sounding like a cracked record, I don't care. Not liking feeling helpless, hospitals, or the strange empty sensation in my head thanks to having both drugs and anaesthetic pumped into my system, it's just... nice... that he's here.

Reassuring, even.

I may not understand him, and I know for a fact he's hiding something even bigger, in his mind, than the 'oh, by the way, I'm actually a field agent masquerading as an analyst'... snippet... he accidentally let slip in Dubai by, and why beat around the bush here, displaying some pretty impressive fighting skills, but... Too used to waking up alone in hospitals, just knowing that he's made the effort – even if it is solely to bombard me with stupid, unanswerable questions – to be by my side, well, it's definitely another gold star in his ledger, that's all.

“How's Jane?” I query groggily, ignoring Brandt's... interrogation... completely in preference to hopefully finding out what... I... want to know.

“Jane?” Looking momentarily bemused, as though – there's only enough space in his head for one and one thing only at a time – he doesn't even know who I'm asking about, Brandt blinks at me and frowns. “Oh! Jane!” Shaking his head as all the pieces suddenly slot back into place, he rolls his eyes in apparent embarrassment and flashes me a sheepish smile. “Sorry. My mind... Sorry! Jane will be fine. The bullet was a through and through that thankfully missed anything of importance. She's in the room next to yours. So, in case you were wondering, is Benji, who, I just have to say, does a rather fine mother hen impression.”

“Good.” The effort of simply being conscious already threatening to get the better of me, I close my eyes and relax fully on the hard mattress. “All's well that ends well, then...”

“Excuse me? How can you be so... blasé? None of what's happened makes any sense to me. You survived a vertical drop in a BMW that... now looks nothing like a car, let alone a BMW. Somehow, and I still don't know how, we were able to beat the clock and...”

“Listen, Rainman, it all happened, okay? Dissecting it in to teeny-tiny pieces isn't going to achieve a thing and the sooner you grasp this and just accept it as a... given... the better,” I interrupt with a sigh as, somehow finding the energy required to open my eyes, I peer blearily at Brandt as he gazes back at me with a look of mute surprise on his face. “What?”

“Did you seriously just call me Rainman?” Brandt murmurs with a note of disbelief in his voice.

“I did,” I confirm somewhat reluctantly as I'm suddenly surprised by how much I hope I haven't inadvertently offended him because, even if it is for no logical reason, I really don't want him to go. I still think he's a little on the peculiar side, and the fact that he's hiding something from me grates, but he's good at what he does and, again, for no logical reason that I can put my finger on, I can't help but like him. That, and he's here and I don't particularly want to be alone.

Laughing, which completely transforms his tired, bruised face and momentarily takes years off him, Brandt squeezes my hand and smiles. “You know, you may not actually be the first person to call me that,” he states easily. “Now... As the one thing I can accept is that you're not going to be any help in my pursuit of making sense of everything that's happened, can I get you anything to make you more comfortable?”

~*~

“Remind me again just why it is you're here, Hunt?”

“I was wondering if you'd had time to consider my request, sir,” I reply, flashing the Acting Secretary a benign smile as he sits glowering at me – or, alternatively, at the mounds of paperwork spread out in front of him – from behind his desk. The last time I saw Trent Palmer he still had the appearance, despite only being a birthday or two off turning sixty, of a supremely fit man who looked considerably younger than his years. Now, however, after only seven weeks of acting in the role of Secretary while the IMF hierarchy squabble amongst themselves in respect to who should score the position permanently, he looks as though he's aged ten years and just happens to be staring an imminent heart attack in the face. His hair, which he'd always strenuously denied colouring, is now more grey than black, there's decided signs of a pot belly under his slept-in looking shirt and the only thing that's detracting from all the lines that appear to have formed over night on his face are the – so-black-as-to-look-like-bruises – bags under his eyes. A field agent who'd industriously worked his way up through the ranks and who has always been obsessively loyal to the IMF, I think it's fair to say he's both giving his role of Acting Secretary everything that he's got and that, in turn, the stress of it is slowly killing him.

“And what exactly would that request be?” Palmer queries as, sighing, he gestures expansively at the huge, teetering piles of documents on his desk. “As you can see, I have a lot on my plate at the moment.”

“My request to have William Brandt transferred from the Analyst's Section and back into the field,” I reply, doing my best to affect a sympathetic expression at Palmer's plight. Never having held even the most passing of interests in aiming for the role of Secretary myself, pretending to sympathise with the mess spread out before him is hard but, in the hope of it helping me achieve my aim, I nonetheless give it my best shot. Spend my days in meetings and pouring over documents before attending yet another meeting followed by a tedious ass-kissing cocktail party or photo opportunity with any foreign dignitary who just happens to be strolling past? No thank you. In all honesty I think I'd rather flip burgers at a fast food chain. At least there I'd know I wouldn't be in constant danger of putting my foot in it and just – losing it from the sheer tediousness of it all – telling them all how I really saw things. I mean, let's face it. If things are fucked, they're fucked. And no amount of allegedly meaningful chatter is going to wave a magic wand and make everything instantly better.

There is, after all, a good reason as to why I'm a field agent and not pursuing a career in politics.

“Who?” Palmer's expression as blank as I've ever seen it, he wearily rubs his fingers against his temples and shrugs.

“William Brandt,” I reply, only just choking back an impatient sigh. “He's an analyst. Well, that is he's currently an analyst.”

“Currently an analyst,” Palmer echoes before giving another shrug and reaching for one of what would have to be at least ten cups littering his war-zone of a desk. Finding it empty, he repeats his 'pick up and peer' routine with another three cups before finally scoring one with something – and, seriously, I don't even want to imagine what it might be – in it. “Sorry,” he continues, taking a mouthful of just whatever the hell it is in the cup and, not exactly to my great surprise, grimacing. “Can't say the name's ringing any bells.”

This, it just has to be said, is not going well and I regret not having simply sent Palmer another email and tried to get my answer from him that way. “About my height,” I offer, not really knowing what else to say to jog his memory. “Uh... Brown hair, I think, and... blue eyes, he definitely has blue eyes.”

“If that's all that you've got, I'm pleased to see he's made such an impression on you too,” Palmer retorts as, proving that he's actually far braver than I've ever given him credit for, he takes another sip of what may or may not be cold, congealing coffee. “Oh, and what's more, your height, brown hair and blue eyes? Guess what, that not only describes at least a quarter of IMF's male staff but, hey, while I'm at it, you as well.”

Oh yeah. This is not going well at all.

“He may well be slightly... uh... autistic,” I reply with a shrug and a weak smile.

Palmer raises an eyebrow. “Slightly autistic, you say?”

“Maybe. Or... Maybe it's just thoroughness.” Either way, he's definitely unique and I can't say I've ever met anyone quite like him before.

“And you want him, a slightly autistic analyst, out in the field?” Having had his fill of coffee flavoured sludge for the time being, Palmer ferrets a couple of loose paracetamol out of his pocket and dry swallows them. “I have to say you're not doing a particularly good job of selling this transfer to me, Hunt.”

“He was... No. Make that, he is a field agent.”

“Is. Was. Which one is it?”

“Is. He's a field agent currently helping out in the Analyst's Section.” His file may state differently, but as I'm confident Palmer – still doesn't know who I'm talking about – hasn't read it, this particular little white lie is one I'm prepared to risk. “If you're not already aware of it, he was part of my team that took down Cobalt in Mumbai.”

“But...” Looking as though he's rapidly nearing the end of his tether, Palmer leans back in his chair and rubs his hands over his face. “Look, I still don't know who this analyst playing at being a field agent or vice-fucking-versa is, so... Let's cut to the chase. IMF is still picking up the pieces from the President's knee-jerk reaction of enacting Ghost Protocol seven weeks ago and we need all the analysts we can get working on making sure we're up to date with all of our intel. Now, it's because of this that I'm inclined to deny...”

“Analysts are a dime a dozen,” I interrupt. “You can bring in analysts straight from university and they'll be busily writing up reports by the end of their first day. Field agents, however, require a lot more training and can't just be so easily replaced. Brandt already has all of the field agent skills and, believe me when I say I speak from experience here, is already good to slot straight back into a team.”

“But...”

“What good is all the intel gathered by the analysts going to do if there aren't enough agents on the ground to follow up on everything?” I counter, folding my arms across my chest and, almost through body language alone, daring Palmer to argue with me.

“If he's so Goddamn spectacular, why don't I just make him Team Leader of his own team, then?” Palmer mutters, meeting my narrow eyed gaze with one of his own.

“Because...” Damn. Accepting that petulantly declaring 'because... I... want him and I got in first' probably wouldn't achieve anything positive, I soften my stance slightly and smile. “Because as well honed as his skills are, I believe he works best under direction. I am, however, prepared to revisit this after we've completed a couple of missions and would be more than happy to prepare a report for you with my recommendations.”

“That's assuming I'm still here which, God help me, I very much hope not to be,” Palmer retorts, leaning forward and scanning his desk with a morose expression on his face. “Okay. You want something that I have to confess to being totally on the fence about, so... Tell me why you want this Brandt and I'll consider it.” 

Okay. That I can – more or less – do.

“I want Brandt on my team because I trust his skills and already know him to be a... good fit,” I reply, mentally crossing my fingers that I'm finally close to getting my way. “Although the team was thrown together in both unusual and somewhat extreme circumstances, we all worked exceptionally well together and I know for a fact that Cobalt would have succeeded if we hadn't... gelled... as a team. Everyone played their part and everyone was essential to our success.”

“And Brandt, he's wanting to return to the field too, I take it?”

“Of course. It's what he's trained to do.”

Having already lied once, it's not as though a second one can hurt, right? I mean, I have no idea what Brandt's opinion on the subject is. He did what he had to do in both Dubai and Mumbai because, simply put, he had a part to play and had to. Our only contact since we flew back as a team to Washington six weeks ago has been a couple of emails finalising the specifics of our reports and, basically, I simply haven't asked him. And, what's more, nor do I plan to. Already having a fairly good idea of how his mind works and how he has to know all of the details before taking the time to make the... right... decision, I plan to just present it – both his return to field work and the fact he's on my team – as a done deal. His skills are second to none and, I don't care how good an analyst he may be as I personally feel that he's wasted sitting on his ass and needs, end of story, to be back in the field. That, and I wasn't actually lying when I told Palmer that we all work well together. Personalities and issues aside, we all pulled together when we had to and that's the sort of team I want to be a part of.

And Brandt, with his never ending questions, brilliant field and recognition skills, and, I know now, after having read his file, strong streak of empathy, just happens to be very much an integral part of it.

Hopefully, in time, he'll come to see this for himself and I'm not just – selfishly – making a huge mistake and fucking yet again, although this time consciously, with his life because, well, I can.

His phone suddenly ringing from somewhere under a mound of paper on his desk, Palmer gives me a mournful look and shrugs. “Fine. Whatever. You can have him. You can do whatever you like with him for all that I care,” he mutters, gesturing me towards the door. “Now, I'd get out of here while I still had the chance if I were you, because if you're still there the next time I look up I'm handing you this fucking job and booking myself into the nearest nut house!”

Not needing telling twice, I murmur my thanks and quickly take my leave.

Step one having successfully been achieved, now all I had to do is break the news to Brandt.

~*~

“Why do you call me that?”

“Call you what?” I reply, taking my eyes off the road just long enough to confirm that, yes, Brandt, who I'd merely asked how he was feeling, is frowning at me from the passenger seat. Still slumped against the door and looking a little on the pale 'n' pasty side, he's nonetheless the most alert looking he's been since I bundled him into the car and I can't help but idly wonder what effect all the painkillers currently in his system might have on his 'must know the minutest detail' personality. Having worked with him for two months now, I know that he's at his most... Rainman-like... during moments of extreme stress – confronted by one of Benji's more hare-brained schemes, for example – or when he doesn't immediately agree with me on something. Other than that, however, admittedly somewhat to my surprise, he's really pretty much... normal. A little on the quiet side, and easily the most... deep and meaningful... of the team, but good company and, as I'd hoped, a good fit. 

He's also, just as I knew he would be, excellent at what he does and there's no denying the only reason I'm still in one piece and driving the car back to our safe house with the prototype weapon we'd been sent to retrieve in the trunk is because Brandt was by my side and well and truly had my back. Granted he's got a dislocated shoulder and one hell of a headache for his troubles, but he never hesitated to enter the fray and, gratifyingly, his opponent easily came off second best. I'm yet to be convinced he's truly where he wants to be and isn't sparing a few longing thoughts to being safely back in the office, but he's still here and I haven't heard so much as rumour about him regretting having accepted my offer to return to the field. I could, of course, ask him how he's feeling being an agent again. Not, mind you, for fear of not liking the answer, that I'm going to. Just as I suspect, some things being better off left alone, he's in no great rush to volunteer the information either. 

While Brandt's opinion on the subject may be unknown, I'm happy with my judgement call and am glad to have him – around – on my team.

Even if he does still ask stupid questions every now and again.

“Brandt,” he murmurs, giving me a funny look. “Why do you always call me Brandt?”

Okay. Fine. As stupid questions go, that's a good one even by his standards. “Because it's your name,” I state with a snort. “What do you want me to call you?”

“It's my surname.”

“So?”

“You don't call Jane and Benji... Carter and Dunn.”

As he's right and I don't, he's got me there. “Uh... I've known them longer.”

“Mmm... In the case of Jane, by what, ten hours at the most?”

“Uh...” Again. He's got me. “I... Uh... I've just always called you by your surname.”

“Do you even know my first name?” Brandt sighs, grimacing with pain as he tries to make himself comfortable in the car seat. “Oh, and if you say... Agent, I don't care how much it might hurt me, I'm going to punch you.”

“William,” I retort triumphantly, relieved that, yes, I do thankfully know his name. “Your name is William.”

“So why don't you use it?”

“Because...” Because that's a very good question, that's why. I've always called him Brandt just because... that's what I've always, without any thought or intent whatsoever, done.

“Because?” he prompts.

“Because... it's a mouthful!”

“Two syllables, and you think it's a mouthful?” Brandt mutters with a truly unimpressed sounding snort. “You know, I hate to break this to you, but Ethan's two syllables as well, yet... somehow I've always managed to cope with it.”

“Fine.” If I had a white flag handy I'd wave it. “If you want me to call you William then, fine, I'll call you William.”

“Will's fine.”

“Fine. Will, it is then.” Bringing the car to a smooth stop at a red light, I turn to... Will... and smirk. “Alternatively, of course, how about... Willy?”

His eyes widening, I suspect, in horror, Will shakes his head and groans. “Seriously? You seriously went there?”

“I did,” I beam. “I seriously went there.”

“Well, having got enough of... that... during primary school, I really wish you hadn't.”

“If it helps, think of what rhymes with my surname,” I reply, taking pity on the memories I've obviously inadvertently installed in him and confessing to a snippet from my own past to counter it, “and you'll come up with what I copped a lot of during high school.”

“Runt?” Will offers after a moment's hesitation.

“Runt? No.” Amused that that's where his mind immediately went, I can't help but laugh as the lights turn green and I drive the car across the intersection. “Replace the... R... with a... C... and you'll be on the right track.”

“Oh!” The penny finally dropping, Will groans again and rolls his eyes. “Children can be so charming, can't they...”

“Mmm... The non stop hilarity of genitalia inspired... nicknames,” I mutter, laughing. “I mean, we make a fine pair, don't we? I mean, what with you being...”

“Oh God, don't!” Will interrupts as, it all getting too much for him, his face lights up in a smile and he laughs. “Again, seriously... Just... Don't go there. If I accept that we make a fine pair, do you promise to never speak of this conversation again?”

“I think I can live with that,” I reply, suddenly taken slightly aback by just... how much... I really can live with the idea of us making a fine pair. Smiling as he is now, and clearly content despite the pain I know he has to be in, there's just something about Will, something that makes him... special... to be around. I'm comfortable in his company and I honestly think that the same can be said for him in that he's comfortable in my mine.

And, both oddly and out of the blue, this suddenly means far more than it really should to me.

~*~

“Will!”

Not caring that the sound of my voice runs the risk of bringing our captors marching back through the doorway, I struggle against the ropes keeping me bound tight to the chair and silently offer a prayer of hope to any deity that may be listening that he's still alive. He hasn't moved since they threw – as in literally – him back into the room a minute or so ago and, as he's half slumped and half stretched out along the floor with his back to me and his face turned into the dirty carpet, I can't even see if he's still breathing.

And, dear God, the sense of breath-restricting, obliterating dread this installs in me is, with no exaggeration, quite unlike anything I've ever experienced before. Sure, I've been in similar situations before – Julia, unfortunately, springs far too readily to mind – but this... This really is something else again and I'm not even entirely sure that I understand why. I know it's not my own predicament that's causing my heart to hammer in my chest though, because, hey, having finished with Will if they want to come and have a crack at me then, seriously, bring it on. I know what pain feels like and I made my peace with the thought of dying while on a mission many, many years ago. If this is going to be the end, then... it's going to be the end. What's both eating me alive though and, I think, confusing me, is the concern and fear I'm feeling for Will. I can't – do anything – undo what's already been done to him, and I can't change a single solitary thing about any of this completely fucked up mission, but...

If their violence-for-the-sake-of-violence interrogation routine went too far and killed him, then... There's going to be hell to pay. I'm not yet exactly sure how I'll be able to manage it, but I will. Whatever it fucking takes to make the bastards pay.

“Will! For God's sake, give me a sign that you're still with me!”

A low moan coming from the crumpled form on the floor before me sounding quite literally like – an answer to my prayers – music to my ears, I hold my breath and watch anxiously as, both incredibly slowly and with obvious effort, Will shifts over onto his back. Now that I can see him more clearly he looks even worse than I'd expected and I know, going on the extent of the bruising and cuts littering his face and bare torso, and the harsh, wheezing sound of his breath, that I'm going to have to focus my attention on doing whatever I can to keep him conscious.

“Will!”

Shit. Shouting at him not exactly going to hold any thrall over him or give him any incentive to remain... engaged... with me, I need to...

Capture his attention.

Pander to his now familiar, overly-logical mindset and make him think.

“Hey, Will,” I call out as he fights what looks to be a losing battle to open his eyes. “Why...”

… Think, Hunt, think.

“Why'd you agree to join the team and return to field work, huh?”

Not the best question, given the circumstances and the fact he probably feels as though he's going to die here at my feet, but... It'll do. He'll have to think of a response and, hopefully, that will keep him with me.

“Wha...?” Although it's clearly an effort for him to speak, Will slowly turns to face me and, or so I'm desperately hoping anyway, waits for me to repeat my all but hideously inappropriate question.

“I want to know why you agreed to return to field work.”

“Oh...” Giving up on trying to convince his eyes to open, Will frowns in concentration and groans.

“Oh... isn't an answer. So, come on. You can do better than that.” It mightn't be pleasant but, as it's all I've got, if I have to nag him into staying with me then I will.

“I...” His breathing ragged, Will focusses on getting it better under control for what feels to me to be an incredibly long period of time before, in a hoarse voice barely above that of a whisper, adding, “You... Because you asked...”

Asked? Pretty much presented it to him as a done deal, more like. But... If 'asked' works for him then I'm not going to argue with it.

“Because I asked? That was your sole reason for accepting my offer?”

“It... Being asked...” Pausing, Will takes a deep breath and visibly trembles from either pain or the exertion of trying to speak. “It... made me feel... wanted...”

“Wanted?” I echo, surprised by both the simplicity of his response and how much it immediately effects me.

“Mmm... Not used to... feeling... want...” Trailing off, Will whimpers and releases a deep, shuddery breath. “I... I've just always... gone... where I've been told. No... No-one's ever... wanted... me before,” he continues hoarsely as, whimpering again, he tries to curl in on himself. “I... I'm sorry, Ethan, I... I don't think I can... do... this. I...”

“Wanted? Listen to me, Will, of course you're wanted!” I shout, straining so hard against the ropes that blood begins to drip around my wrists from the torn flesh that, too caught up in doing what I can to keep Will awake and focussed on me, I don't even feel. “I want you, Jane and Benji want you, and... You've got to believe me that you're very much wanted and have got to hang in there. Just... Stay with me... Will!”

~*~

“Why Will?”

Reluctantly tearing my attention away from both Will, who's lying, pale and deeply sedated, on the hospital bed in front of me and the endless loop of futile and going nowhere thoughts – Near miss! Too close a near miss, actually. Far, far too close a near miss. If it had taken any longer to be rescued... If Will hadn't made it... Am I getting too old for this shit? Even though he's going to be okay, is it wrong of me to still feel the urge for bloody revenge anyway? It not being like things haven't been this fucked before, why am I taking it so badly? – in my head, I glance up at Jane and, shrugging, wait for her to elaborate on her random question.

“I mean... The whole thing having been captured on their security camera, they had to know you were the one to take down Murphy's son, so... Why take their frustrations out on Will?” she continues, frowning as she crosses her arms over her chest and flicks her gaze from me to Will and back again. “Perhaps I'm being unimaginative or even stereotypical here, but if I held you responsible for something that pissed me off and I had you at my mercy then, hell, you'd have been the one to cop it.”

“Maybe they saw Will as the weaker link,” Benji offers hesitantly from where he's hovering, no doubt feeling at a complete loss, behind my chair. “I'm clutching at straws here, of course, but he was wearing a suit, yeah? So... Maybe they looked at Will in his suit and Ethan in his cargo pants and tactical vest and simply thought Will had to be the softer target...

“Maybe,” Jane replies with both a shrug and a notable lack of enthusiasm. “I still would have gone for Ethan though. After all, they knew for a fact he'd already proven to be a considerable thorn in their side.”

“If it helps, I'd have gone for me too,” I murmur, letting my gaze slide back to Will as I idly wonder if it's unbecoming of me to wish for both Jane and Benji to just leave already so that I can be left in peace. I'm grateful – understatement – for their in-the-nick-of-time rescue and I love them like family, I really do, but right now I'm simply not in the mood for either their chatter or their... unanswerable... questions . I'm not saying, as I'll probably just slip effortlessly back into the mass of confusing thoughts in my head, that I won't miss them when they're gone, but... I have a headache, I'm still, even though I know he's safe and that, having been thoroughly checked over by the doctor, none of his injuries are life-threatening, worried beyond all reason about Will, and, seriously, engaging in well meaning chatter is just about the last thing I feel like doing.

“And...” I add as Jane gives me an expectant – 'you're going to continue, yes?' – look. “Even if they thought he was an easier mark, they were wrong. He... He didn't give anything up and I know for a fact the cover of our man on the inside is still secure.”

“You're sure of that?” Jane queries, her expression deceptively blank as she hides what she's really feeling behind a mask of – 'don't look at me like that, you know I have to ask' – professionalism. “Unless you...”

“I'm sure because they made certain I had a front row seat for the entire sick performance,” I interrupt flatly as for a split second I'm back there, watching helplessly as Will tried his best to choke back the screams of pain from what they were putting him through. “He... He never, not that I would have been able to blame him if he had, gave anything away. So... Please. Take my word for it and let the matter drop. They went for him, we might never know why, but they did and... uh... the damage is done. He...”

Damn it. I'm not, as a general rule, an overly emotional person, so... Why am I choking up here?

It's over. I'm safe. Will's safe. There's...

There's no reason I should be feeling this way. I...

Wanted. He joined the team because it made him feel wanted, because it made a nice change from simply always doing as he was told.

Why...

Why does knowing this make me feel so... I... I don't even know what.

I just don't understand what's going on here.

“He'll be fine,” Jane finishes with a soft, reassuring smile as she shifts closer to me and gently places her hand on my shoulder. “I get the feeling he's quite resilient and won't stay down without one hell of a fight.”

“Yeah, but...” Sighing, Benji positions himself at the foot of the bed and, apparently not wanting to look either Jane or myself in the eye, directs the rest of his response in the general vicinity of Will's feet. “Don't get me wrong. I hope it doesn't as I like Will and want him to stay, but... Who knows, maybe this might be enough to send him back to the far more sedate life of an analyst.”

“Don't forget it was... his sedate life as an analyst... that saw him plunging into the freezing depths of that river in Moscow,” Jane murmurs drily as, narrowing her eyes, she shakes her head at Benji and gives him a warning look. “So, you know...”

“He'll stay,” I mutter, cutting Jane off and, just for good measure, shooting Benji a sour look. “He goes where he's wanted and... He's wanted here. I... want him here.”

~*~

“Why? I just don't...” Trailing off, Will stares glumly down at the glass of scotch in his hand for a few seconds before taking a sip and, closing his eyes, resting his back against the wall. Sitting on the floor of my scummy little motel room in preference to moping in his own scummy little motel room solely because, it, unlike mine, has the added bonus of looking out over an alley way popular with the local prostitute population, Will looks both exhausted and as though the weight of the world is pressing heavily down on his shoulders.

Not, however, that I suspect I look any more alert or full of life than he does. I might be sitting listlessly on the edge of my bed as opposed to slumped against the wall on the floor and, okay, I may have had three glasses of scotch to the one Will's been nursing for the past three-quarters of an hour, but that, really, would be just about all that separates us at the moment.

Well, that and the fact I gave up asking the question I just know to be on the tip of Will's tongue many, many years ago.

Why? I just don't understand...

… What motivates some people.

… Why the world is full of such heinous assholes.

… How anyone in their right, or otherwise, for that matter, mind could do such a thing.

… What they were thinking. How they could possibly think... this... was the best outcome.

… What the fuck is wrong with them.

I don't ask it, either internally or aloud, anymore because, to be brutally honest, there simply isn't any answer that can be given to it. Not an acceptable, clearly thought out and coherent one at any rate. 

Facetious? Blunt? Sarcastic as all fuck? Resigned?

Sure. Answers along those lines can be given, complete with both a roll of the eyes and a lacklustre shrug, with ease.

Because...

… Shit happens.

… Bad things happen to good people.

… The world just is full of heinous assholes and you need to both toughen the fuck up and deal with it.

… Because their mother didn't breast feed them, or their stinky uncle looked at them funny when they were three, or they received one too many blows to the head on the sport field, or, maybe, I don't know, they just came out wrong.

… Seriously? How the fuck am I supposed to know?

I wish I had an answer, one that was both proper and sincere, to give to Will, but I don't. I also wish that he wasn't so clearly hurting and that there was something, anything, really, that I could do to lift his mood. But, again, I don't. I don't know what to do for him. If left to my own devices I'd probably just have another couple of glasses of scotch before having a very long and very hot shower and crawling in to bed. It wouldn't particularly achieve anything, but it would at least be... something... and, when I woke up, I'd put what would be now yesterday's events behind me and simply – reinforce my blinkers – move on. Yes. What we encountered today was beyond horrid and the very embodiment of sick and twisted evil.

But...

Dwelling on it isn't going to change anything. It happened. They're dead. What's done is done and all that. We can go over all the events that led up to the horrific discovery, and we can question our timing and self-flaggelate with a never-ending round of the 'what ifs?' looping relentlessly around in our heads, but... It's just not going to change a single, solitary damn thing. They'll still be dead and we'll still find ourselves standing in the shipping container surrounded by their corpses and gagging at both the God awful scent and the truly offensive sight.

I'm not, contrary to what some may possibly think, inhuman and things like this do get to me. The lives of fifteen young women cut short solely because – courtesy of a leak inside Interpol, no more and no less – the sex-trade cartel had caught wind of the fact we were closing in on them fast, I mean, how could such a futile loss of innocent life not effect me? They didn't – as Will, in one of his cracked record, albeit with entirely good reason, moments repeated over and over again on the drive from the docks back to the motel – deserve to die. Nor did they deserve to be picked up off the streets and taught, through pain, rape, and with threats against their families hanging over their heads, to be submissive sex slaves simply so a bunch of assholes can make their fortune out of human misery. It sickens me. All of it. It has to and it does.

Again though, what's done is done. I can charge the Sweepers with the task of identifying their bodies and ensuring, through what the families will only ever know as an 'anonymous' donation, that they're afforded a proper burial, and I can vow to see the cartel ran into the ground and that all the mother fuckers behind it are either in the ground themselves or behind bars for the rest of their miserable existence. Other than that though my hands are essentially tied. I can't bring the girls back or stop them from having been abducted in the first place anymore than I can travel back through time and protect Will from Murphy.

I wish I had it in me to do all of these things and more, but I just don't.

They're dead, the cartel is on the run, and however bad I might be currently feeling, poor Will is feeling it a thousand times worse. It's just how he is. He feels things far more keenly than I do. Not only that, but he relies far more strongly on... logic and reason... than I do. He might, in the back of his head, try to put the senseless slaughter down to the cartel's knee-jerk reaction to 'clean house', but it still wouldn't be enough for him. They could have released the girls somewhere or simply left them for us to find. So... Why didn't they? They still would have got away. Alive, the girls were as much... 'lost stock'... as they were dead. So... Why kill them?

I don't have an answer for him because I don't have one for myself.

What happened in Will's past to make him seek out where he'll feel wanted? Why... did... Murphy take his frustrations out on him three months ago instead of blaming me for the capture of his son and beating my head against the wall? Why didn't Jane ever tell Hanaway how she felt about him?

Why does William Brandt get under my skin in ways that I still don't quite have it in me to... own up to?

Questions. I swear there's more questions in this world than there are answers.

“It's okay, Ethan,” Will murmurs softly as, finishing his scotch, he climbs gracefully up off the floor and walks over to take a seat on the edge of the mattress next to me. “You can stop with the... unfamiliar, I might add, 'bunny-in-the-spotlight' expression you're currently sporting, because I know you don't know... why... anymore than I do. I was just... You know me, I was... just thinking aloud.”

Surprised that Will has taken it upon himself to sit so closely to me, and the fact that this is the nicest thing to have happened to me in days is a sad confession that I don't really want to dwell on all in itself, I swivel around to better face him and sigh. “If it helps, I wish I had an answer for you,” I reply with a wan smile.

“I just wish it had never happened,” Will responds matter-of-factly as, placing his empty glass on the floor by his feet, he surprises me yet again by snatching my glass out of my hand and downing the last of the scotch in it with what looks to be a suddenly very much needed gulp. “I wish... There's so many damn things that I wish, actually,” he adds cryptically, locking his sad blue-eyed gaze on mine before, as the glass slips from his fingers and onto the mattress, leaning forward and very gently pressing his lips against mine.

For all of a split second time literally stands still as – my mind threatens to call an immediate stop-work meeting at this gloriously strange turn of events – Will tentatively kisses me and I do my utmost best to shake off my shock and kiss him back. He then, as reality of some description – either 'dear God, what on earth am I doing?' or, 'he's clearly not going for this and I'm making a huge fool out of myself' – sets in, abruptly pulls back and stumbles to his feet.

“I... Fuck!” Backing hurriedly away from the bed, Will runs his fingers through his hair and, all the time both blushing and shaking his head, turns to make for the door. “Shit! I... Ethan, I... Sorry. I... I'm so fucking sorry. I don't know what I was thinking and... uh... I hope you can forgive me...”

His – somewhat panicked – piece said, Will reaches the door and, with one last wide-eyed glance over his shoulder, is through it even before I've had time to digest just whatever the fuck it is that's going on.

He kissed me.

I should have – oh God how I should have – tried harder to embrace the moment and done a better job of letting him know... yes. Yes, yes, yes!

Only I didn't.

And now he's gone.

~*~

I suspect, out of the confused mass of never-ending 'whys' currently running amok in my head, that the biggest, most all consuming question of all would have to be...

Why am I currently lying alone on the hard, uncomfortable bed in my scummy little motel room when, if I had any fucking brains, that is, I could still be with Will?

Then, running a close second, there's...

Why the fuck didn't I kiss him back? 

Just... Why, why, why? As award winning, stupid reactions to give, simply freezing in the face of... something undeniably appealing and promising... would have to take the proverbial cake. It really would.

And, yet again... Why?

Putting the whole failed marriage thing aside for a moment, I've had as many men, if not more, actually, in my life as I have women, and, truth be told, if I ever wanted to be truly honest with myself on the subject, I'd probably confess to preferring them. So, you know, having male lips settle on mine is usually more cause for celebration than – frozen to the damn spot – shock. I'm also usually, even though I now know it's certainly not something I should simply take for granted, pretty darn good at thinking on my feet and going, regardless of whether I even wanted to or not, with the flow. If, for example, a mark had leant in and kissed me while I was working them, I would have returned the kiss without hesitation. The fact that I most likely wouldn't have wanted to wouldn't even have come into it. I would have both embraced the moment and gone with it. It's not, after all, as though I haven't done it – and worse, far worse – before. Attraction, let alone desire and interest, doesn't even have to enter the equation You just do what you have to do, what the moment dictates, and... I'm good at what I do. I am. I think on my feet and I embrace the unknown without hesitation.

So, again, why on earth didn't I kiss him back? Seeing as I could bring myself to kiss Jack the Ripper himself if the situation called for it, why didn't I kiss Will? It just doesn't make any sense. None whatsoever. I could kiss a perfect stranger or a sworn enemy without even pausing to question my response, yet... Someone I know and, in my own, albeit no doubt detached way, actually care about? Hell, no. That would be too... logical. And God knows there's very little place for so much as the mere concept of logic in my life.

I like men. I like kissing. I like Will.

Three strikes though and, instead of being there with bells on, I'm well and truly out.

Oh, and then there's Will himself. I mean, why did he kiss me in the first place?

Actually, no. That's not really the question that's going begging here because, while, granted it may be lacking detail, that I more or less know an answer for. He kissed me because, clearly, something in his head was telling him that he wanted to. I know he must have wanted to because Will, unlike me, is one of those 'think both first, and thoroughly' before acting people. He would have thought about it, weighed up the pros and cons, bided his time for a while in order to remove as much margin for error as possible, and then he would have made his move. As for... why... he wanted to, however... Well, that may indeed be the sixty-four thousand dollar question, the one that even trumps the huge fucking question mark as to why I'm lying here alone – feeling sorry myself – on the bed. 

If it was just about anyone else I would have put the move done as an open invitation for... release, sex solely for the sake of mindless pleasure and a good enough way to kill some time as any. With Will though... I don't know. I just don't know. He's male, so it stands to reason that he's as capable of thinking with his cock as the rest of us are, and it's certainly not as though I expected him to be celibate or anything like that, but... Again, it's Will. And, regardless of how hard I might try, I just don't fully... get... him. Logic and reason are – seemingly, anyway – what make him tick, not... seizing the moment and simply going along for the ride because there's nothing better he can think of doing at the time. If he's bored, he reads or tries to convince Benji that card games can actually be played with a real deck of cards as opposed to only on a computer. What he doesn't do is indulge in peculiar, out-of-character spots of randomness or go out of his way to push my buttons.

Well, that is he didn't do anything like that until tonight. Then, I don't know, maybe he just decided both 'to hell with it', and, 'let's go for it'. That, and if you're going to do something you may as well do a good job of it.

Alternatively, maybe he just hit his head at some point during the day and I simply didn't see it. As explanations go, at least that one would make sense to me. Either that, or, having lost a bet or something, Benji put him up to it. I could almost see that too. 'Go on. Kiss Ethan when he least expects it. I dare you.' Knowing Benji far better than I do Will, I could accept him having a hand in it with ease. Jane too. I doubt she'd have any moral objection to waging a game of trying to mess with my head. Only... Benji and Jane aren't here and, just call me pedantic, where would the fun be in putting Will on the task of setting me up if they weren't around to witness it?

I just don't get it.

Any of it.

No. Wait. That's not entirely true. One thing, and I'd almost be relieved about this if not for the fact, surprise, sur-fucking-prise, it poses yet more questions than it answers, I do now know is the answer as to why Will's so damn capable of getting under my skin.

And that's that...

I want him. 

Not just as a team mate because I see him as useful and pleasant enough to be around, but because I find him... very... pleasant to be around. I'd never travelled down that particular path of... unwanted enlightenment... before because I... I just hadn't. Relationships aren't my forte. If I've thought about them at all since my divorce was finalised it would have been in vague terms of probably wanting to remain on my own because it was just for the best and, what's more, I was totally fine with it. I mean, I don't... need... that 'special someone' in my life. I'm content enough with my life as it is and, at the risk of appearing blunt, if not downright crass, sex is hardly difficult to find. If I have an itch I find someone to scratch it. Simple. Friends are nice enough to have, and I have good ones who I know I can rely on and who are always there should I need them. To have someone... special... Well, in all honesty, what would it really achieve? Isn't a lover essentially only a friend you have sex with? And, when you look at it that way, friends I have, and lovers that come (no pun intended) and go I can get.

So, no, I don't waste time on daydreaming about being in a relationship and trying to recreate what I once had with Julia. I especially don't look at Will, who has set my world ever so slightly off its axis ever since I first saw him in the Secretary's car in Moscow, and think, 'Absolutely. He's the one for me.'

That is, I... hadn't... been looking at him and thinking along those lines.

Now though, on the back of one innocent kiss that I – didn't even participate in – froze in the face of, it's like a veil that I hadn't even been aware was covering my eyes has been lifted and I'm seeing Will in an entirely different light. Ignoring my reaction and the way he couldn't get out of the room quick enough, by kissing me and showing his hand, so to speak, he's indicated both his preference and his interest. And by doing so he's made me wake up to myself and accept that the reason I spend so much time thinking about him – and worrying, and struggling to work him out – is because, without even being aware of it, I genuinely care about him and want him... fully... in my life.

Which, and why try to deny it, brings with it it's own rather large set of problems.

~*~

“You're doing it again,” Benji comments cryptically as he flops down on the sofa next to me and, his expression one of utmost concentration, attempts to make the possibly life changing decision between reaching for either his iPad or his laptop, both of which are sitting on the coffee table in front him. “And, you know,” he continues as, decision made, he scoops up his iPad and makes himself comfortable against the back of the sofa, “I kind of can't help but wonder, well... Why?”

I don't really want to, and I know deep down that I'll probably only live to regret it, but... Curiosity killing the cat and all that, if I don't reluctantly seek clarification I'll only dwell on it, so... Here goes nothing.

“Doing... what... again?” I query, placing my iPad on my lap and, solely because I know it will make him uncomfortable, giving Benji my undivided attention. “I've told you before, Benji, if you're going to go around making random statements you have to be able to back them up.”

“Staring at Will,” Benji replies with both what I take to be a self-satisfied grin and an unbothered shrug. “You stare at him with a strange expression on your face when you think no-one's paying you any attention and... You were doing it again. When I walked in here you were staring at him with that goofy look on your face and, again, while, hey, I know it's none of my business, I can't help but wonder why.”

Damn. Sprung.

There being no point in either denying it or going on the defensive, I settle instead for scowling down at my iPad and give my own unbothered shrug. “I was just seeing what he and Jane were up to,” I mutter a touch both dismissively and defensively.

“Maybe this time it's all you were doing,” Benji replies, his tone of voice hovering between that of actual concern and, as he'd just have to know he was stepping dangerously close to thin ice here, caution. “And, okay, while I'll admit our team mates taking coffee on the balcony of our motel suite is one of those things that definitely warrants a watchful eye monitoring the situation, what about all the other times, huh? You can tell me it's none of my business and I'll happily go on with checking my email but, come on, Ethan, what gives?”

“It's not like I haven't caught you staring at Jane when you think no-one's watching,” I state sullenly as, let's face it, the desire to open my mouth without thinking first just has to go and get the better of me. Benji, of course, likes Jane. It's no secret and everyone, Jane included, knows it. What she also knows, however, is that it would take nothing short of divine intervention for Benji to do anything about it and that, because she's still scarred by Hanaway's death, she won't take the first step either for reasons of self-protection. This doesn't change either their working relationship or very close friendship though because they know where they stand with each other and, for the time being at least, are content with it. Benji can look, but not touch, and Jane accepts it without making an issue out of it. It's not ideal, and I like to think one day one or the other will take that huge first step, but for now it just works.

“Yeah, but I know why I stare at Jane. Oh!” His mind suddenly taking him where I'd really hoped it wouldn't, Benji makes a muffled, sort of snorting sound and claps his hand over his mouth.

Getting up – with my tail between my legs – and stalking off being both far too obvious and needlessly rude, I look across at Benji and just... wait for him to say it.

Thankfully, I don't have to wait long.

“Oh!” Benji repeats for good measure before, with a shake of his head that may or may not indicate a sense of disbelief, adding, “You stare at Will because you... like him. I... Shit! I didn't know. If I...”

“Why should you know?” I interrupt flatly as I shoot Benji a warning look that I hope he translates to mean that the last thing I fucking need is his pity. “Besides... It's nothing. Just forget about it. I'll watch my pointless staring in the future and, seriously, Benji, you can forget this excuse for a conversation ever took place.”

Shaking his head again, Benji, who I suspect is more of a romantic than he lets on, gives me a sad look and, to my horror, reaches out his hand and gently places it on my knee. “Have you...”

“Benji!” Picking up his hand, I return it to his own lap and increase the intensity of my warning look by narrowing my eyes. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“I get that, but...”

“No buts.”

“Come on, Ethan. I like you and I like Will, and I honestly think...”

“Save it, Benji. I don't care what you think and I certainly don't want to hear it.” I know I sound rude, which I don't really want to as I don't want to either piss Benji off or make him tetchy with me but, honestly, what does he expect? None of us are exactly renowned for talking about our feelings and, even if I did feel the urge for a nice heart-to-heart, it's not exactly as though there's anything I can tell him with any degree of confidence. It's been a week since Will kissed me and, with the notable exception of him keeping his distance from me the very next day, it's pretty much as though it never happened. 

Neither of us have raised it and, if we both concentrate, we can behave around each other exactly the same way as we had been before. Unlike the understanding Benji and Jane have though it's not particularly comfortable and it's reaching the stage now where, for the first time, I'm beginning to wish he'd never done it. At first, flush from the event itself and my epiphany of having – dear God – 'feelings' for him, I had a tentative sense of hope, that, something having already given, surely something would give again. Now though, I'm not so sure and, not much liking the awkwardness between us, would take going back to how things were before in a heartbeat. My feelings haven't changed and, yes, okay, I was staring at him as he sits with Jane on the balcony, but, I can live with them. Again, it might be far from ideal, but I can bury them deep inside and, for the good of the team, move on.

“Fine. As I can see you're one small step from Hulking out on me,” Benji murmurs with another shrug and a weak smile, “I'll just say one more thing then, hey, we need never speak of this... bonding... moment ever again.”

“Bonding, huh? Is that what we're calling it?” Choking back a sigh, I nonetheless nod my acceptance and gesture for Benji to continue. “Okay then, hit me with it.”

“Will, he doesn't bite, you know,” he replies very much matter-of-factly. “If you were to just...”

“And Jane does?” I retort, my mouth once again launching into action before common – decency – sense can step in and censor it. “Uh... Look, Benji, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said...”

“You probably shouldn't have,” Benji states, cutting me off and, just to show there's no hard feelings, daring to give my knee a quick pat, “but, think about it... If we both went out there this very instant and laid our cards on the table, I'm telling you now that you wouldn't be the one to score a knee to the balls for your troubles.”

Benji's admirable way with words immediately painting a mental image that I have no difficulty in picturing as being capable of actually occurring, I can't help but laugh and give him a grateful smile. “When you put it that way...”

“Mmm... I do. I'm not saying Will won't look at you like you've grown a second head or something, but there's no way he'd... uh... lash out like someone else would,” Benji replies just a tad wryly. “What's more, you know I'm right, too.”

“I do,” I confirm as, the very realistic mental image still doing it for me, I laugh again. “I'm not about to get up and go out there to prove you right, but... I can see it. I really can.”

“In that case,” Benji murmurs, resting his feet on the edge of the coffee table and switching on his iPad, “we really are truly as bad as each other then...”

~*~ 

“I could, of course, ask just why it is you're lurking outside of Will's door in the middle of the night,” Jane states as, opening her bedroom door and stepping into the corridor, she gives me a look that's equal parts long suffering and pitying, “but, you know something, I'm not even going to bother.”

While I know that I'm both an idiot who has really done it this time and well and truly caught out, I nonetheless choose to ignore these inescapable facts and dredge up a bland, only slightly embarrassed smile to flash at Jane. “I was just going to...”

“Save it,” she interrupts, shaking her head and making a point of looking directly at me as she stifles a yawn. “If you were going to get a drink you'd be heading towards the stairs, and don't even try the bathroom routine on me because your room has the en suite, remember?”

“Uh...” She's got me and the unimpressed look on her face tells me she knows it. So, okay, maybe I was lurking outside Will's room – like some sort of crazy stalker – while I tried once and for all to decide whether both cornering him and forcing an explanation for the kiss out of him was in either of our best interests or whether I should just – give up – leave well enough alone. I'm not saying it's particularly... normal... behaviour. Nor am I about to confess, even if it does ultimately see me slipping back into my room, thus no doubt saving me from myself, to being overly happy at having roused Jane from her bed, but... I'm not an especially patient person and I just can't go on like this indefinitely. Even if I end up not liking the answer, I've still got to know it as the not knowing and uncertainty is slowly sending me out of my Goddamn mind. So long as I know where I stand – and, again, if I don't like Will's explanation then, so be it – I'll be able to make the most of whatever I've been given and move on.

“I was... uh... just trying to decide whether I'd told him of the changes in tomorrow's plans,” I offer lamely as, to my chagrin, Jane laughs softly and walks over to where I'm standing. “There... uh... being no need to disrupt him though, I... I'll just tell him over breakfast.”

“Pathetic,” Jane murmurs, rolling her eyes. “I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Ethan, but, as excuses go, that was truly pathetic and, honestly, I expect better from you.” Pausing, she glances at Will's door for a moment before looking me in the eye and sighing. “Incidentally, when exactly did you become so indecisive?”

“I'm not,” I protest for, let's face it, no other reason than I have to, that I can't just stand here and blithely agree – even if it is the truth – with her. “I thought I needed to...”

“It's only where Will's concerned, you know,” Jane comments, talking over the top of me as she reaches out her hand and gives my shoulder a quick squeeze “Work wise you're still the same focussed, determined, quick thinking lunatic that we've all come to... tolerate... if not love, but... Will, he just seems to get the better of you somehow.”

“I don't know what you're...”

“Save it.” Sliding her hand down my arm, she suddenly grasps my wrist and, with no warning whatsoever, pulls me across the corridor. I've barely had time to work out just what it is she thinks she's doing before, with a smile, she states, “Trust me, I'm doing this for the entire team,” and, with a cursory knock, opens Will's door before shoving – as in, literally – me into his room.

“He's all yours,” she adds flatly as, no doubt already having been woken by our chatter outside his door, Will sits up in bed and turns the lamp on. “Just, talk, for God's sake. Talk. Scream. Fuck. Hell, I don't care what you do so long as it's something and I no longer have to feel as though it would take more than a chainsaw to cut the air between the pair of you.”

Her piece said – and how – Jane gives me the sort of look that tells me in no uncertain terms that if I immediately follow her through the door that I'm not going to like what she does to me and storms out of the room. 

Now, while – I'm generally quite unflappable – it takes a lot to make me feel as though I'm not in control, this... surprising... turn of events is quite unlike any I've ever experienced before and I have no idea just what it is I'm supposed to do. Okay, I had been wanting to see Will and, fine, having Jane step in and force my hand probably isn't the worst thing that could have happened, but... Now what? Will, who isn't giving any indication of wanting to move from the bed and who's staring at me as though he honestly expects me to speak first, obviously knows that I'm only here because Jane made me and, well, that just doesn't strike me as a way to get things off to a good start. I need to...

Think. Quickly plan my next move. Make the most of the unexpected and turn it around in my favour. Seize the moment.

Only, for some reason, I can't.

I look at Will, as he gazes coolly back at me, and just as it was when he kissed me, it's like I'm – incapable of both movement and speech – frozen to the spot. It's just... I think I'm so wary of inadvertently saying or doing the wrong thing that self-preservation has taken over and rendered me incapable of doing, well, anything. Granted, only a few seconds, a minute at most, has passed since, having achieved what she'd wanted to, Jane left us, but it feels like far, far longer.

“I'd say that I suppose this is one way of getting us to talk,” Will comments drily as he makes himself more comfortable against the mound of pillows at his back and folds his arms across his chest, “only...”

“Only I'm not exactly talking,” I finish quietly, relieved both that he'd chosen to make the first move and that, thankfully, I was actually able to respond to it. “Sorry. I... I don't know what the matter is with me and... uh... probably should just go.”

“As I suspect Jane's out there lying in wait for you, you could try,” Will replies as, shrugging, he gives me a wry look. “You're here now,” he continues, patting the mattress by his legs in an invitation to join him on the bed, “so I think we may as well make the most of it. Jane's right. Things can't go on between us as they have been.”

Nodding my acceptance, I somehow resist the urge to gaze longingly at the door over my shoulder and, walking over to the bed, gingerly take a seat on it down the end near Will's feet. “Given that, hey, the timing could have been better, I'm sorry for having woken you.”

“I wasn't asleep anyway,” Will responds with another shrug. “Again though, you're here now and, while neither of us might feel particularly up to it, we can't keep avoiding the subject for ever and need to talk.”

Okay. Fine. He's right about everything and I just have to... go for it.

“Why'd you kiss me that night?” I query without hesitation as, finally, I both embrace and accept that, yes, this really is happening and that I may as well just throw myself into it and go along with it. “I know, I know... I could have gone after you or even asked you on any number of occasions before now, but... that, more than anything, is what I want to know the answer to. It... The not knowing, it's just been eating away at me...”

“Yet, knowing my own, some have been known to say, both... autistic... and Rainman-like, penchant for asking questions over and over again, you didn't feel as though you could turn the tables on me and actually ask something yourself?” Will murmurs good naturedly as he gently prods my thigh with his foot. “You're incredible, you know that, right? All I pretty much do is ask questions, yet, here you are with one that you've just confessed to being eaten alive by, and it's taken until now for you to actually ask me. I... I just don't get you, I really don't.”

Almost as amused as I am relieved by Will's incredibly easy-going reaction to, let's face it, everything, I flash him a cautious smile and shrug. “You don't get me, huh? Given that on most days I can't for the life of me work you out either, I don't really know where that leaves us.”

“Where it leaves us is on my bed... reluctantly... having a conversation we should have had ten or however many days it is ago now.”

“Ah... That's right. Thanks for reminding me.”

“My pleasure. Now...”

“Are you going to explain... the kiss... or do I have to keep trying to guess?”

“You can guess if you like, but I suspect whatever it is you manage to come up with will be far more interesting and enthralling than the truth.”

“The truth. Seriously. I'll take the truth over... my own delusional thinking any day.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay then.” Taking a deep breath, Will leans forward and, looking me directly in the eye, smiles. “I kissed you because I wanted to.”

“No shit. That much I managed to work out for myself.”

Oh. Ooops. Going on Will's raised eyebrow and what may well be a smirk twitching at the corners of his lips, it appears I actually said that aloud and didn't just think it.

“Uh...”

“No shit, huh?” Will interrupts with a muffled snort of laughter. “Charming. I'm so glad, then, that my explanation didn't come as any great surprise to you.”

“You don't do anything without having first thought about it in detail and being confident that, yes, it's what you wanted to do,” I offer weakly. “Because of this I'd already worked out that you only did it because you wanted to, but... uh... While... wanting... is one thing, what I haven't been able to work out is... why...”

“Really?” Some of his merriment slipping away, Will gives me a funny look. “Just how strange do you think I am? I wanted to kiss you for the same reason people the world over want to kiss, and that's because I happen to like you. I'll admit I went about it the wrong way, and if I had my time over again there's probably about a hundred things I'd do differently, but the simple answer as to why I kissed you is because I happen to like you. If, however...”

“Why?” I interrupt, wanting to be as sure of everything as I possibly can before I seize fully on to his surprising confession and just follow it to wherever it will take me. 

“Why... what?” Will murmurs, frowning.

“Why do you like me?” I don't want to sound needy, but because it's Will and I want things to be clear between us, I have to know.

“Because you're... you,” Will replies as, suddenly appearing as though he's had enough of this conversation, he lowers his gaze and looks down at his knees. “You're... brilliant, and incredible, and everyone looks up to you, but, even more than that, you've actually been nothing but kind to me and I enjoy being in your company. It... It's as simple as that, but... Whatever. If I've made, actually, make that... am still making a fool out of myself, then just tell me and I'll apologise before...

“There's nothing to apologise for because, believe me, Will, you're not making a fool of yourself,” I I state, cutting him off as I shift along the mattress and reposition myself by his waist. “The fool here is me, not you. I shouldn't have froze, hell, to this day I still don't even know why I did, and, while I'm at it, I should have manned up before now and asked you about it instead of second guessing everything and, for the wont of a better way of describing it, just hiding or burying my head in the sand.”

Shrugging, Will shifts into a more upright, cross legged position and gives me a sad look. “It's okay. My timing, as did my... avoidance... that followed, sucked and, if you must know, I'm still berating myself over it. It's just... That night... I couldn't get the sheer pointlessness of all those deaths out of my head and, without thinking, I went in search of... something... that I shouldn't have. It's alright though, Ethan. If it means things can go back to how they had been between us, I can forget about it if you can.”

“And if I don't want to forget it?”

“Then I'd have to revert to form and ask... Why?”

“Because despite doing a damn good job of not showing it, I happen to think you're pretty amazing as well...”

His eyes widening slightly at my, no doubt to him completely out of the blue statement, Will shakes his head and sighs. “I know you're always good at making me feel better, but... you don't have to pander to me because you think I'm fragile or whatever. I made my move, you froze, and if you're not interested then you're not interested. I can, you know, take it.”

“Amazing. Brilliant. Quite possibly slightly autistic, but failing an official diagnosis I'll settle on... quaint, definitely quaint. A pleasure to be around, as well as being an asset to any team. Intelligent, even if an overly defined logic-streak has a nasty habit of frequently running interference. Endearing, albeit curiously so, and most certainly easy on the eye, so...” Trailing off, I pick Will's hand up from where it was resting on the mattress and squeeze it. “Looking at it that way, why wouldn't I like you, huh?”

“You're not just saying that...”

“I'm not just saying it, no. You're incredible, Will, and while I may never know why I didn't immediately kiss you back that night, should you ever feel compelled to try again I can give you my word now that the response will be entirely different.”

“I'm still recovering from the... depressing... response to my first attempt,” Will murmurs as, some of his earlier good humour thankfully returning, a light appears in his eyes and he smiles hopefully. “I don't know if I have it in me to try again...”

“In that case...” Reading between the lines and knowing what it is I have to do, I cup Will's cheek in the palm of my hand and, leaning forward, press my lips against his. Gratifyingly, they part under the gentle pressure I'm applying and for an all too brief moment we share a softly passionate kiss. “Maybe that will help increase your confidence,” I whisper with a kiss to the tip of his nose. “I know we've both gone about this poorly, just as we both know there's still no reason it'll actually work or amount to anything, but... if you want to draw a line in the sand and say we start from now, I'm willing to give it a go if you are...”

His smile broadening, Will climbs out from under the bedding and, straddling me, drapes his arms over my shoulders. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?” he replies, making himself comfortable as my arms instinctively settle around his waist and I hug him tightly against me. “So... Yes,” he continues, kissing my forehead. “I'm in.”

~*~

“I don't even know if I dare to ask,” I state dubiously as, with a curiously smug expression on his face, Will returns to my – cell – hospital room after having walked Jane and Benji out to their car.

“Ask what?” Carefully shutting the door behind him, he walks over to the bed and, as I'm currently sitting slumped and feeling sorry for myself in the armchair by the window, takes a seat on the edge of it. “You know my motto is 'seeing as you'll never know if you never ask, just ask away', so... Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“When you put it that way...” Grimacing not so much with pain, as all the painkillers being pumped into me are doing more than an adequate job of masking all of the aches coming from all of my injuries, but from the sheer effort of convincing my numb body to move, I slowly swivel around and fix Will with what I really hope comes across as an expectant, as opposed to dazed and confused, look. Just like, I suspect, most people do, I hate being in hospital and can still hardly believe I'm going to be stuck here for the better part of a week at least. So I'm concussed and probably shouldn't have tried to take on those five rock apes with my bare hands, but... So what? Bruises and cracks and abrasions heal, and I honestly fail to see how being trapped in here is really any better than simply mooching around my own home. The Secretary himself, doctors, and even Will, who looked aghast at the very idea of me crawling out of here in my current state, for that matter, are, however, dead against the idea. This, in turn, pretty much means I have no choice in the situation at all and just have to, to use one of Jane's more delightful turns of phrase, 'suck it up'.

“Of course I put it that way,” Will replies, the smug look on his face giving way to one of concern as he leans forward to better peer at me. “Ethan? Are you sure you're not pushing yourself too hard and shouldn't just be back in bed? I can help you if...”

“I don't want to be in bed and am fine where I am,” I interrupt, sounding, even to my own ears both crabby and querulous. “Uh... Sorry. Just because I feel like death warmed up and don't want to be here doesn't give me the right to take it out on you.” Sighing, I force my lips into a brief, no doubt somewhat grim looking smile as, frowning, Will looks at me as though he's contemplating hopping off the bed and attempting to manhandle me back into it. “Don't look at me like that. I can be miserable in the bed or I can be miserable here and, right now, I'm good for being miserable here.”

“If you say so,” Will murmurs, looking far from convinced at my admittedly lame ass attempt at bravado. “But, whatever. You're old enough and pig headed enough to do things your own way, so... What were you wanting to ask me?”

Relieved that he's – for now, at least – letting the matter of my health and well being drop, I flash Will a far more genuine, although fleeting, smile and relax against the back of the chair. “While I'm still not convinced I really want to know,” I respond, “I can't help but wonder why it was you were looking so smug, if not downright self-satisfied when you returned to the room. Seriously, cat that had got the canary had nothing on it.”

“Cream, if you don't mind,” Will retorts as, making a tsking sound of disapproval under his breath, he shakes his head. “Canaries have too many feathers and, I don't know about you, but I imagine it would be hard to look smug if you had a couple of yellow feathers hanging out of the corner of your mouth.”

Mock groaning, I roll my eyes and malign the fact I lack the energy required to get up and first poke Will in the arm for his weird attempt at humour, before hugging him simply because he's here and means so damn much to me. “Fine. Whatever. You looked like the cat that had got the cream... Is that better?”

Smiling sweetly, Will nods. “Much better. Now, if you must know...”

“Trust me, I... must... know...”

“Anyone ever tell you that you're incredibly demanding.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“Again with the cat comments.” Pausing, Will cocks his head to the side and affects a positively award winning expression of innocence. “If you're wanting a kitten for your birthday all you have to do is come out and say it. For some reason I could just see you with a Siamese.”

I groan again and wish I had something within reach to throw at him. “And in a minute I'm going to see you evicted from my room if you don't stop with the comedy routine and tell me what was so obviously keeping you entertained when you walked back into the room.”

“You're no fun when you're drugged to the eyeballs,” Will mutters with both a grin and an unbothered shrug. “But, fine... If you must know, the reason I was looking so pleased with myself is because while I was walking them out to their car I managed to talk Jane into going out on a date with Benji.”

“Oh...” Of course he did. Maybe it's the painkillers, or maybe I'm simply off my game, but I can't say I ever saw that one coming.

“Actually, make that a double date.”

“A... double date?” Again. Of course. I don't know what it is I've got to feel surprised about. “Uh... With who?”

Will gives me a strange look, as though he can't believe I just asked such a stupid question. “With us, of course.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“You perhaps thought the Secretary and his wife?”

“I... No. Of course not.” I don't know what I thought. Hell. I'm not even sure I know just why it is I'm having this conversation.

“Don't look so mortified, Ethan. It'll be fun,” Will states. “It's just a date, you know, most likely dinner somewhere. Not a group trip to a tattoo parlour to have matching IMF logos tattooed on our backsides.”

“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that,” I mutter, still struggling to make sense of Will's random... double date concept. “But... We eat together all the time. In fact, we all spend so much time together that we may as well just live together.”

“And don't think Benji hasn't already spent many a wistful hour imagining it becoming a reality,” he replies in a calmly bland tone of voice that tells me, no, he isn't joking. “Eating together and living out of suitcases together though isn't... going out on a date. Think about it. While I'm not complaining or see it as a big deal or anything like that, it's not like it's something we've ever actually done before and, I don't know, maybe I was wrong, but I thought it would be fun. You know, something different. An excuse to dress up and just go out with friends and, for a short time at least, pretend that it's a normal occurrence.”

He's right. Of course. On all accounts. We've been lovers now for five months and I know Will takes my presence in his life as much for granted as I take his, but our lives aren't normal and, it's true, we've never gone out on a date before. It's not even something I've ever thought about before, and it probably never would have crossed my mind if not for Will raising it now, but it could be said we skipped... courtship... entirely and simply went straight for friendship and sex. Like Will, I'm certainly not complaining, and I hope he's as comfortable with how things have grown between us as I am. Now that he's raised the idea of going out on an old-fashioned date though, I certainly can't say I'm against it. In fact, I not only like the idea but also think it's a good one, something, indeed, to look forward to.

“And when exactly is this momentous occasion planned for?” I query, catching Will's gaze and smiling at him.

“Hopefully as soon as we're willing to be seen in public with you again,” Will responds both cheerfully and with a wink. “I don't know if you've looked in the mirror lately but, uh, not a pretty sight had nothing on it.”

“With friends like you, huh...”

“Seriously, Ethan, I hardly recognise you under all those bruises.”

“So, let me get this straight then... Once I no longer resemble Quasimodo, you and I are going to go out on a double date somewhere with Benji and Jane...”

“Somewhere of their choosing, yes.”

“Their choosing? You really think that's wise?”

“Probably not, but it's too late now.”

“I'll remember that when either Benji breaks the news to us that we're going bowling, or Jane gets her way and we're carted off to some Nascar event.”

“So long as it doesn't involve costumes and some sort of comic convention, I'm sure we'll survive.”

“And... Just like that, you've made bowling or car racing seem positively civilised, if not actually desirable.”

“It'll... be an adventure.”

“That it will,” I agree as, suddenly feeling exhausted, I smile through a yawn. “Actually, Will... It is a good idea and I'm sure it will be fun,” I add, knowing that it won't be long now before I have to admit defeat and drag my ass back to bed before I simply doze off in the chair.

“It'll be different, if nothing else,” Will replies as he stands up and, walking over to me, places his hand gently on my arm. “Come on, you. I think, and you can bitch and moan here all you like as I'm not going to take no for an answer, that it's time I got you into bed.”

“Not tonight, dear,” I murmur, putting up no resistance, as he begins to help me up out of the chair, “I've got a headache.”

“Now who's being a comedian, huh?” Will murmurs drily as, once he's got me to my feet, he drapes his arm around my shoulders and plants a soft kiss on my cheek. “Come on. Hopefully you'll feel better after a nap.”

“Could hardly feel any worse,” I grumble, leaning against the reassuring warmth of Will's body for an all too brief moment before both slowly and laboriously climbing into the bed. “At the risk of this coming as a surprise to you, I hate feeling like this.”

“No? Really? I never would have guessed.” Pulling the bedding up, Will smooths it over me and squeezes my hand. “Go to sleep, Ethan. I'll still be here when you wake up.”

Stifling a yawn, I squeeze Will's hand back as I struggle to keep my eyes open. “You don't have to stay. If you've got things to do or...”

“You're injured and possibly about to have a nightmare or two about being made to go bowling while dressed in a Captain America costume, so of course I'm going to stay,” he replies, pulling his hand free only to stroke his fingers softly down the side of my face. “Think about it, seeing as we probably should have just accepted that we're stuck with each other in that damn river, where else am I going to go?”

~*~

“Seriously?” Walking out of the en suite, I look at Will and shake my head as, sitting up in bed, he peers intently at his iPad. “Having gone over it on the plane, and in the car during the drive here from the airport, and, as I'm fairly sure it was running through your head during dinner as well, trust me, Will,” I continue, walking over to the bed and, before he has time to protest, plucking the tablet out of his hand, “you know the mission inside out already and don't need to keep going over it.”

“Who said I was reading the mission report again?” Will counters, yawning. “Maybe I was reading porn.”

“Porn, huh?” I mutter, holding the iPad up so Will can see it and tapping my finger lightly against the IMF logo on the top of the screen. “Maybe I'm missing something and, hey, if you've got a kink you've been hiding from me then now might be the time to share it, but... just call me staid... I've never found our logo that much of a turn on.”

Smirking, Will snatches the iPad back and, after switching it off, places it on the bedside table. “Haven't you heard?” he murmurs. “We're diversifying.”

“Into porn?”

“Uh-huh. I think the brief was... to move with the times.”

“And... Again I say... Into porn?”

“It's a growing industry. Just look at the success of that Fifty Shades of Tedium, or whatever the garbage is called.”

“Growing...” Gracing my smart ass of a partner with a smirk of my own, I turn off the overhead light and walk around to my side of the bed. “No pun intended, of course...”

“Oh. Very droll.” Groaning at my own lame attempt at humour, Will throws the bedding back and waits for me to climb into bed. “What we were doing earlier?” he continues, referring to the lovemaking we indulged in after returning to our room after dinner. “It was actually research.”

“Research?” As conversations go this one's of a nonsensical level that would even do Benji proud, yet, in its own way, it's almost routine now. Talking light hearted crap on the eve of a mission in preference to falling prey to doubt or, worse, fear. It doesn't matter that on paper at least the mission looks like a walk in the park, or that I wasn't really joking when I said that Will already knows it all back to front and that, the wheels having been set in motion, we're good to go, as... It's just what we've taken to doing. One of us starts it and the other just picks it up and runs with it. While I never had a problem with 'pre-mission eve' before, now it's something I almost actively look forward to.

“Mmm... Research.” Pausing, Will watches me get into bed with a somewhat unreadable expression on his face. “It sounds, wouldn't you say, better than... a chore...”

“If that's you're way of clarifying whether I'd be less insulted at being considered... research... as opposed to just... a chore,” I mutter, affecting my own wounded expression, “then, yeah, you'd be right.”

“Good. That's what I thought.” Beaming with an award winning degree of feigned satisfaction, Will pulls the bedding back up and gives my arm a small pat. “With any luck I might, over time, even be able to convince myself of this.”

“That I'm not a... chore?”

Nodding, Will bites down on his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing. “Uh-huh. That you're... research.”

“For your... foray into writing porn?”

“Erotic fiction, if you don't mind.”

“Well, it certainly sounds better than a self help manual on how you can do anything once you've put your mind to it.”

“Maybe I'll keep that as a backup plan,” Will smiles as he leans over and kisses my cheek before settling himself down on the mattress and resting his head on the pillow. “If it helps though, I'll need a lot more... research... before I'll even begin to feel anywhere near ready to put pen to paper.”

“Fingers to keyboard, more like,” I reply with a quick kiss to Will's forehead as I flick the switch to turn both the bedside lamps off and make myself comfortable. “You're right though. Knowing that I'll be the lucky participant in your research... does... help. I mean, chore or not, it's nice knowing that I've got a purpose.”

“Mmm...” Giving up, Will laughs and, rolling onto his side, molds himself around me. “And that's to keep me entertained,” he murmurs, pressing warmly against me and draping his arm over my chest. “What's more, you're good at it too, and I think, after weighing up all the pros and cons, that I'll keep you.”

“You will, huh?”

“Mmm... Life wouldn't be anywhere near as much fun without you.”

Knowing that the truth, regardless of how heartfelt and irrefutably factual it might be, doesn't have any place in our – keep reality at bay for however long we can manage – banter, I resist the urge to confess to Will that, simply put, life without him in it doesn't even bear thinking about and go instead with, “And, yet again, I'm so relieved to have a purpose.”

“Make that two,” he replies with a yawn. “Research and entertainment. What more could a man ask for?”

“What more, indeed.” Hugging Will to me and loving, even though it still, after all these months, comes as a surprise to me and I know full well that it would ruin the moment to admit it, that this is how he prefers to sleep. Together, entwined, and enforcing our own little spot of domesticity and normalcy in an otherwise hectic and unusual life. At first, once it become clear that I'd have to be a complete bastard and kick him out of bed after sex if I wanted him to leave, I fully expected to be annoyed by his lingering, limpet like presence. Then, when he took it upon himself to make himself at home in my bed when sex wasn't even on the table, well, to be perfectly honest I quite literally didn't know what to think. It was unusual, definitely somewhat pointless as far as I was concerned, pretty much an invasion of my taken for granted personal space, yet... All that aside it didn't take me long to grow to both appreciate it and wonder why I was ever against it in the first place. Unassuming company, reassurance and comfort in one warm, solid, breathing package that I've come to accept I'm extremely lucky to have.

“Pretty perfect, really,” Will murmurs. “Now... Shut up and go to sleep.”

“And good night to you too.”

“G'night.”

Closing my eyes, I hug Will just that little bit tighter and, as he slides quickly off to sleep, marvel – as I frequently do these days – at how... different... things are now. Different, as in... better. Much, much better. I have a team that I trust and I have Will. Team mate, partner (in every sense of the word), best friend, and lover, all in one tightly wound, definitely slightly on the quirky side and gorgeous package. If not for running the risk of coming across as some sort of new-age nut job, I'd even go so far as to contemplate calling myself blessed. IMF and a masochistic streak that tells us we need to earn our pay by doing whatever we can to save the fabric of society as we know it aside, we have very little in common. I find it hard to sit still and always feel as though I have to be on the move, whereas Will only exercises because he knows he has to and would much prefer to be sitting somewhere reading a book. He also thinks long and hard before doing anything and still, to this day, can't get his head around what he calls my 'devil may care' attitude to simply diving in and hoping for the best. I annoy him by being both stubborn and too driven (read, pushy and possibly even occasionally arrogant and rude), and there are times when his cautiousness and obsessive attention to detail make me want to scream and threaten him with physical harm. We bicker as enthusiastically over things of no consequence, such as what car to hire or what to eat, as we do over who does what during missions and it's a testament to Will's patience and skilful way with words that I don't always win these arguments.

Somehow though, it just all... works. Maybe not effortlessly, but certainly with a degree of ease that still manages to surprise me. We tolerate each other's failings or idiosyncrasies and simply work either with, or around them. I get the impression that, having found himself in a position he likes and doesn't want to lose, Will both plans, and has it in him, to do whatever it takes to make a proper go of our relationship. Whereas, all but instinctively tuned to expect failure when it comes to affairs of the heart, I'm prone to switching off and admitting defeat if things are going badly, he'll speak up and look into ways of negotiating a mutually acceptable solution. And, again, it works. He goes the extra mile and, relieved that I haven't ruined things and am being offered yet another chance, I step up and concentrate on doing what I can to fix things.

I still, and suspect I always will, find him a little mad, though. Not, however, and this is another one of those things I've simply accepted, that I'd change a single, solitary thing about him even if I could. If everyone was the same the world would be a very mundane and boring place. Take our 'double date' as one, prime, example. If Jane and I had gotten our way we never would have given into Benji's suggestion of going to the Central Washington State Fair. Jane thought being surrounded by families and screaming children sounded like a complete nightmare, while, having grown up with being made to attend county fairs and never having found myself all that impressed by the experience, I just about couldn't think of anything I'd... less... like to do. Will got on board with Benji's enthusiasm at the prospect – of reverting to childhood – though and insisted that, as it was both only one day out of our lives and what Benji wanted to do, we 'suck it up' and just make the most of the experience.

And, although it pained both Jane and I to – eventually and begrudgingly – admit it, we all had a fantastic day. With low, if not... no... expectations, being able to switch off from our normal lives and what we knew to be still out there, lurking and waiting for us tomorrow, and just go with the flow was an experience all in itself. Unhealthy, sugary and sticky food was consumed, so many prizes – that, in turn, despite running the risk of looking like paedophiles on the prowl, were handed out to passing children in a desperate bid to get rid of them – were won on the shooting games that we actually got banned from them which, needless to say, was cause for hilarity in itself, and... Yeah. It was just a good day. Not even Jane and Benji coming to the fairly quick realisation that their relationship was far better suited to the 'sister and brother' level they already had was able to put a dampener on things as, if anything, it was simply a weight off their shoulders and they were able to accept, once and for all, where they stood with each other. Which, not that he's said anything, mind you, I half suspect was what Will expected would be the case when he originally came up with the idea of the double date. Clear the air, have some fun at the same time, switch off however momentarily from what we know to be forever out there, and... move on.

Without Will as the guiding force though, none of it ever would have happened. Not the day out at the State Fair, not Benji finally realising that he and Jane already had the perfect relationship and not even this, what it is we now have. He'd probably only deny it if I presented it to him, the positive impact he has on those around him, because he sees himself very much as taking a backseat in things, but Will's a driving force in that he's capable of making things happen. He does it unobtrusively, possibly not even consciously or with any form of pre-planning, but he makes the effort to try and, thankfully, it usually works. It was Will, after all, who made the first move by kissing me, and, while it might have been Jane who shoved me into his room that night, it was still up to Will to speak first. 

It's hard, thanks in the most part to the huge fuck up that was my marriage, for me to admit it to myself let alone so much as... consider... ever actually voicing it, but I love Will. I do. I mean, how can I not? He's a constant, reliable presence in my life that not a day goes by that I'm not grateful for. He's also companionship, a voice of reason, and someone I know I don't need to keep any secrets from because he's in the same boat as I am and simply... understands. Everything. He understands everything. From the night sweats to the determination to see the mission, whatever the possible cost may be, through, all the way down to the simple fact of life that there's nothing else we... could... do. The life of an agent isn't an easy one, but knowing that you've got someone by your side every step of the way, well... It just makes a difference.

One day, hopefully not too far off in the distant future, I might even find the courage to tell him.

~ end ~


End file.
